


Maybe we're victims of fate

by vertigo



Series: JayTim Week: Valentine’s Day  Edition 2017 [4]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, JayTim Week, M/M, flower shop, jaytimweek: vde
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 11:19:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9817844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vertigo/pseuds/vertigo
Summary: “So, what will it be Mr. Drake?” Straight to the point—Jason has no business losing his time with someone like that, someone who feigns being small (although the circles under his eyes, the nervous twitching of his shoulders and the blush that spread all the way over his cheeks can’t be faked) and accepted a place as his replacement.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I loved the flower shop/ love notes prompt, why, you ask. Because my father is a botanic and he passed along the line the hate for bougainvilleas.

**I.**

As the dirt fell from his mouth and the splinters ripped his fingers, Jason felt a gush of wind knock him sideways—clawing his way out of his own grave wasn’t something he ever imagined doing, not even in his wildest dreams. His lungs burned, still covered in soot and ashes, his nails were broken, pierced by cherry wood and ceramic.

 

On the distance a thunder rumbled, illuminating the collapsed vases filled with weeping flowers and drenched pages that followed the rivulets created by the pouring rain. Jason tried to grab one of them, his broken fingers did not respond well and the wet pages crumbled in his hands. His mouth still tasted like dirt and his right eye throbbed painfully—almost closed from the… Beating? Was he in Africa still?

 

_No._

This place smelled like Gotham, rancid day-old sweat and smog covering the raindrops. Above him, a stone angel clamed for mercy.

 

Here lies Jason Todd.

_Not anymore._

The next thing he remembers is pain, excruciating pain. Days and nights are filled with the ache in his bones and the emptiness in his head. _Throb, pinch, pull, rip, tear, pulse, itch, pain, pain, pain._ His heart beats meaningless in his ribcage, pumping the blood but he doesn’t know why. There’s a void where his emotions should be. There’s a longing in his aching bones, deep down to the marrow, flowing from his blood cells to the still pumping heart, but he doesn’t know what that means. There’s an image, big, threatening hovering behind his eyelids, blinking amongst the reddish hue of his closed eyes.

 

He doesn’t know what it means.

 

_Not anymore_.

 

He thinks when the pain becomes more outstanding and the first deep breath **burns** his lungs—there’s something filling his airways, liquid, warm and cold and Jason _fights_ it. He feels his muscles pulling, as if they were stretched and finally, _finally_ they’re filling up the space where they should be. Pulled taut, ready to fight like Bruce taught him. He registers the shouts, a familiar female voice and her nails diggings into his skin—his skin breaks and he can _feel_ the pain. Not only the physical aspect of it, but Jason **knows** that for the first time his brain synapses aren’t frying just to rely the information, but he can process it, acknowledge it and **welcome** the pain. He almost panics when Talia pushes him.

 

“You remain unavenged.”

 

_Not anymore_. He thinks when the water fills up his mouth and replaces the memories of dirt, sulphur and blood, along with the foul taste of the Lazarus Pit.

 

**II.**

It’s been months of exhausting training and Talia has proved herself a better mentor than his old one—she has the resources and resonates with him in a molecular level when it comes to his ideas. She never dares to tell him that it was wrong of him to kill or maul his teachers; she never uttered a word that wasn’t somewhat encouraging.

 

If only she haven’t left him with cum still drying on his skin and a cold bed, she could be better. _We_ _could be better_ , Jason corrects himself in his thoughts. It was not about sex or desperate kisses, but the healing power of being with someone who understood what it felt like to be under the twilight of Bruce’s emotions. Of course he had emotions, buried deep under six feet of regret and anger, but smiles and warm hugs were reserved to the lights of his life, not creatures like him and al Ghul, who crawled from under his shadows to beg for a crumble of his attention.

 

He feels a pang of regret for not blowing him and for not burning the Joker alive. _The time will come_. Jason muses, rubbing his beard as his eyes go through a rack filled with roses. _It has to be perfect. Me, him and the fucking maggot. We’ll be together when the time comes._ Jason wouldn’t call it cowardice— _planning_ was a better word for it, and soon all the cogs would move and things would fall in place. For now, he would acquiesce to a quiet life, snapping stems of flowers and arranging bouquets for the living and the dead.

 

Last week a man named Carl came in, asking for white hibiscus. His wife was comatose.

 

Karla asked for a big, flashy and perfumed bouquet. She was getting married to her high school sweetheart.

 

Louise bought a potted violet.

 

Alfred Thaddeus Crane Pennyworth phoned, asking for four bouquets of white lilies. He delivered them to the man himself, accompanying the old butler in unsteady footsteps as the Autumn leaves crunched under his feet. Alfred remained unmoving—an unstoppable force as he picked the bouquets one by one and placed the flowers over the Wayne’s graves, his mother’s and his own.

 

Jason realized that his grave was the most decorated—some old wilting purple lilacs curving in their vases (he remembered the feeling of the china splitting his hands as he clawed out of his grave) and gardenias growing near the tombstone. _Here lies Jason Todd_ was still clear underneath the angel’s grey feet and below it, rested an acrylic box, filled almost to the brim with folded papers.

 

“Jason liked books.” Alfred supplied when his eyes lingered for far too long on the box. But he didn’t bring any page, only flowers and the remorseful stare of someone who saw many young deaths. Jason moved his jaw, feeling the tension bleed out from his clenched teeth. _How could they think this would make me happy while the Joker is still out there?_

 

He trashed his room that night, colliding his fists against the wall until his knuckles split open again and the white walls were stained in red.

 

**III.**

 

Poison Ivy tried to kill the owner last week.

 

Jason brought out a shotgun and pierced a bullet through her shoulder before Batman crashed the window and took her away.

 

Not before lecturing about the safety of guns, and how a simple florist shouldn’t have them. Commissioner Gordon came in a few minutes later, asking him for his gun permit. Jason shoved the shotgun in his arms and turned around, thinking about shoving a grenade up in Bruce’s ass.

 

**IV.**

 

He didn’t hear the bell chime, so preoccupied with that damn bougainvillea that the old owner insisted on keeping inside. He never knew _how_ that damn woman made it grow inside a flower shop, but the thorny, giant, red monstrosity seemed to have a penchant for draping itself all over him, rubbing those damn thorns all over his arms. His coworker chatted animatedly with a costumer—he grew accustomed with her rapid-fire talk and the flourish of her movements.

 

“Oh, I’m sorry but Sandra left two months ago, she moved to Arizona with her fiancé and they’re having babies…TWINS!!! She said their names will be Mara and Diane if they’re females and Marcus and Scott if they’re males, but if they are like… Female and male they don’t know what they’ll do, probably they’ll draw straws… Or call them Diane Mara and Marcus Scott, I think it sounds like a country duo…But, you know her name is Sandra Dee and her fiancé is called Joseph Andrew, I think it will be great to call the kids when they do something wrong? Instead of calling them Diane or Marcus they can say Diana Mara Coleen Smith! Am I rambling? Anyways, that’s ok! You’ll love our new florist! He’s the best, honey, he’s simply superb, so talented with his hands, so hot in the face! He even knows how to…Lee… Groom a bonsai! LEE!”

 

“Jesus Christ, Emily!” Jason shouted from the back, disentangling himself from the deadly hug of the bougainvillea to the counter where Emily resides with her golden locks and dirt covered face, his gloved pinky prodded his ear as if she had split the eardrum by screaming his fake name. “What is it?” Emily’s smile was almost bright enough to cover the man beside her—but not enough to distract Jason from looking at his replacement shuffling on his feet, head low like he was _ashamed_ of looking him in the eye.

 

“This is Mr. Drake, he’s one of our best customers! Sandra always took care of his orders, do you think you could do it? I have to make a bouquet for Clara, she’s having a gender reveal party and I need to make a box of “boy” flowers, what the hell you know, what if the kid decides he’s not happy with the gender? What if it doesn’t want to have a gender? And what the hell is a “boy” flower? Oh my God that’s so dumb, why can’t they have like a regular party because you know there’s a human being arriving on earth and they should be celebrated regardless of their gender…” Jason shook his head in a negative while Emily almost flowed away, picking up flowers from their buckets as she went, babbling about everything and nothing. He leaned against the glass counter, using his elbows as leverage while Tim smiled _sweetly_ at him.

 

Too sweet.

 

“So, what will it be Mr. Drake?” Straight to the point—Jason has no business losing his time with someone like that, someone who feigns being small (although the circles under his eyes, the nervous twitching of his shoulders and the blush that spread all the way over his cheeks can’t be faked) and accepted a place as his replacement. “Are you going to tell me your story and ask my opinion?” Tim shook his head, his fingers tangling and untangling themselves nervously.

 

“I usually pick them up…I just don’t know how to make a bouquet?” Jason shrugged, lifting up the wooden part of the counter and standing side by side with his replacement. They move silently through the small aisles, between the rows of flowers in full bloom greeting them in their copper buckets, Tim picks his favorites by gingerly running his fingers over the rim, careful not to touch any of them with his fingers. Jason notices a gait in his walk and the way he favors his left arm when he reaches out for the plants. Whatever Tim is getting, there’s little rhyme and reason when it comes to the colors—he already suspects he’s after them because of their meaning when his arms are full of white chrysanthemums, purple delphiniums, pink gladiolus and white heathers.

 

He asks Jason for the double amount of hyacinths and purple lilacs. _The boy is completely in love_. He thinks to himself while he arranges the flowers in one huge bouquet, intermingling them with leaves. Tim is still uncomfortable, looking like he wants the ground to swallow him—this level of _fake_ makes Jason cringe. Not even Dick with his good boy act was that annoying. “It’s done, Mr. Drake.”

 

The Robin thanks him with a small smile and hands in the money—crumpled bills that came straight from his pockets. But he can’t raise the bouquet and Jason suspects that whatever damage was done to his shoulder must have started at the scapula, running all the way to his clumsy fingers. “Sorry, I fell while skiing with Bruce.”

 

“Do you want me to accompany you?” He asks just to be polite.

 

“Hm…If it’s not too much trouble… I just have to take those to the cemetery.”

 

**V.**

Jason was pretty sure they would end up on Conner Kent’s grave, maybe on Mrs. Janet Drake’s resting place. But no, Tim has a special talent to throw metaphorical curve balls, he discovers when his hands sweats and the good old _Here lies Jason Todd_ line stares at him. The kid beside him looks apologetic as he bends down and removes a thin crust of dust from his tombstone—Jason can hear him muttering a soft hello, apologizing for being gone for so long.

 

_I wish I could be here sooner, but you know our lives,_ Tim whispers, his icy blue eyes tracing the letters of his name. _sometimes, sooner is too late, Jason_. That hits home, along with the confusion of **why** his replacement would treat him like that if they never really interacted. “Could I ask what’s the story between you two?”

 

Tim sighs, removing the jacket of his suit and rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt. He kneels on the ground, grabbing the brush and a bucket filled with water someone left for him there and scrubbing carefully the tombstone. “Jason was… Someone who noticed me when no one else did.” He said softly, his blue eyes staring at the greening stone. “It might seem stupid, or even a petty rich kid thing, but when my parents went to their first Wayne function, they were so busy networking that I was left aside.” Not even once he raised his eyes, taking care of the grave as if it was a long lost lover. “Jason found me and we spent the night mocking the people in the room.”

 

There’s a sudden click in his head and Jason remembers the lost kid, looking frail and afraid of all grownups with their flutes of champagne. Alfred made them a bowl of chicken popcorn and they sat at a corner of the room. His heart beat twice as fast that night when Tim gave his first shy laugh.

 

_My name is Broose Vain, I am Gotham’s prince._ He had mocked Bruce, and he was sure his adoptive father heard it, but it was totally worth it to see the look of surprise and approval on Bruce’s face when he realized it wasn’t a mean remark, Jason was trying to aid a poor boy who was lost. “Have you read The Great Gatsby, Mr. Lee?”

 

Jason shook his head in an affirmative, feeling the bouquet slip in his sweaty palms. “ _He smiled understandingly—much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced—or seemed to face—the whole eternal world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just as far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey._ ” Tim enunciated, dumping the old flowers on the ground to remove them later and motioning for him to give the fresh bouquet, which he arranged in the vase beside his grave. “That was the way Jason looked at you. He had the uncanny ability to find who needed assistance. He was one of those rare persons who can light up a room when he smiled, you could have Bane punching your grandmother and Two-Face hitting your father, but the moment Jason smiled, you knew that there was hope in the world, Mr. Lee. You knew that he had that sliver of goodness that could cut through the Gotham’s darkness.”

 

He felt his fingers shake—the same old beating of his heart picking up in both hatred for his successor and something he did not dare to say to himself. Tim got up, dusting his knees and moving to the stone angel. Jason did not hesitate on grabbing the bucket and helping lift Tim up. He could only appreciate the way he balanced himself precariously with his damaged arm, while the other one was occupied with cleaning the statue. Jason could see that the look in Tim’s eyes was a paradox mix of focusing, pain and _adoration_. “And then he died?”

 

Tim was quiet, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “You know Mr. Lee, only the good die young.”

 

**VI.**

“Thank you for your help, Mr. Lee, I couldn’t have done it all by myself.” The boy smiled truthfully, his hair damping at the roots and the white shirt already wet with sweat.

 

Jason coughed, rubbing his beard for the lack of things to do with his hands. “That’s ok, Mr. Drake. It was a pleasure to meet you.” Tim smiled at him, looking somewhat lighter after grooming his grave.

 

“Do you have a cigarette?” He brought out a pack of Camel and Tim grabbed two, picking up a lighter from his pocket and lighting both of them. Jason shoot him an inquisitive stare as the new boy wonder plopped down and put the second lit cigarette in front of the tombstone, taking short drags like a pro. “Jason used to smoke. I do that sometimes because it reminds me of him.” He said, behind a curtain of grey smoke. “Thank you, Mr. Lee.”

 

He said nothing, nodding curtly and observing Tim pull out a creased piece of paper and a pen.

 

**VII.**

_You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it,_ Said the latest note, piling up on top of other yellowed pages that sat inside the acrylic box _,_ _eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death._ _I have loved none but you._

Jason broke the lock, reading the sometimes gorgeous, sometimes hurried calligraphy of Timothy Drake. _Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same._ The notes at his feet reads, in Tim’s chicken scratch writing. _'Tis better to have loved and lost, Than never to have loved at all._ He devours the notes, feeds on every line he knows from his books as an ache like he didn’t felt ever since he took the first breath out of the pit consumes him. There’s something stinging in his eyes—and he knows that it’s the need to cry, not from sadness though, he feels completely and utter loved like he never imagined it was even possible.

_When he shall die,_  
_Take him and cut him out in little stars,_  
 _And he will make the face of heaven so fine_  
 _That all the world will be in love with night_  
 _And pay no worship to the garish sun_. His phone vibrates in his pocket—Hush’s number tells him its time.

**Author's Note:**

> Flowers for the meaning of the flowers: a white chrysanthemum symbolizes truth and loyal love; Delphinium, Hybrid symbolizes big-heartedness, fun, lightness and levity. It also indicates ardent attachment; Gladiolus symbolizes strength of character, faithfulness and honor. The Gladiolus flower signifies remembrance; white heather symbolizes protection and indicates that wishes will come true.; Hyacinth symbolizes playfulness and a sporty attitude and in its extreme rashness. Hyacinths also denote constancy. Blue hyacinth stands for constancy, purple for sorrow; purple lilac symbolizes first love.
> 
>  
> 
> And as for the authors in order: Jane Austen, Emily Brönte, Alfred Tennyson and Shakespeare.
> 
> My fists are always raised @[beta-lactamase](http://beta-lactamase.tumblr.com)


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